Chapter 12 - Crossing the Atlantic
The private Gulfstream jet cut silently through the stratosphere high above the Atlantic Ocean, its cabin illuminated only by the faint, pulsing glow of digital tactical maps displayed on the central table. Outside, the night sky was an endless expanse of velvet black, mirroring the absolute focus and determination inside the cabin.
I stood by the window, swirling a glass of aged bourbon, watching the distant curvature of the earth. For three years, these international coordinates had felt like a distant, hazy memory—a fog induced by the very men who now sat safely in their Swiss fortress believing they were untouchable. They thought the neural implant had made me their permanent slave. They didn't realize that removing the cage had only unleashed the beast.
Luca walked down the aisle, handing me a secure tablet displaying the real-time satellite telemetry of our destination. "Our advance team has already secured a safehouse forty miles outside of Geneva, Boss. Local Swiss authorities have been heavily paid off by the syndicate to look the other way, meaning whatever happens tonight, we operate completely off the grid."
"Good," I replied, taking a slow sip of bourbon. "I don't want local police interference. I want the global directors of the Eastern Syndicate to look me in the eye and understand exactly what happens when you try to turn Dante Moretti into a puppet."
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"The chalet is protected by automated perimeter sensors, biometric locks, and an active security detail of twenty professional mercenaries," Luca noted, tapping the screen. "Frontal assault is suicide. We'll have to infiltrate through the private cable car line running up the cliffside."
"A cliffside infiltration," I muttered, recalling my early days rising through the ranks of the underworld before wealth and luxury made men lazy. "Perfect. Have the team gear up in matte black tactical suits. No radios—use encrypted optical comms only. We strike at midnight precisely."
